Voyeur
by zycroft
Summary: Resigned to the fact he can't have what he wants, House compromises. H/W UST. Written for the Merry Month of Masturbation at LJ.


Desperation had its own taste, a deep mineral tang fueled by fear and desire and confusion and history. He'd been down this road before and was enough of a realist to know he'd make a few more trips in his time.

It wasn't fair, but he'd long since given up dwelling on that fact. He preferred to dwell on solutions and after years of running the gamut of denial, hope, anger, rejection, fear, and disgust, he finally had a solution.

Sure he'd wasted an inordinate amount of time with the hope tact, but he couldn't change the past, so he'd just not think about that. Better to think about his ingenious plan that, though not giving him exactly what he wanted, was a close enough approximation thereof and should suffice.

I mean, he wasn't getting any younger, and death would probably pay a visit sooner rather than later. Better to compromise, he figured. He wouldn't lose face or have to suffer any condescending congratulations on this shocking new personal growth. He compromised more than anyone knew and he could handle it just fine, thank you very much, so long as they remained ignorant.

He should have done this two years ago. Then he wouldn't actually have to be the one to do it. But alliances had formed, lines were drawn in the sand, and Lucas was always a bit of a babbling idiot, anyways.

Better this way.

And the new living arrangements afforded more plausible explanations for his presence should he get caught setting it up. Just slip in, place a few pieces of equipment here and there, and saunter back out. "Oh, I was just looking for the latest copy of the NEJM. Mine wasn't delivered on time." Plausible.

Assembling the equipment hadn't been too difficult, either. The bastard baby's nurse had gotten herself fired and now the walking diaper was taken out of the house every day for her replacement-replacement parenting. Lucas was usually there during the day, but he could sleep through anything. And it would just be rude to wake him and ask to borrow the equipment. Much better to just help himself.

The added bonus of Lucas not knowing was that Cuddy wouldn't know, either.

Placement wasn't an easy decision. Leave it to Wilson to hire an interior decorator who preferred the minimalist style. Too few knickknacks offering cover, but he'd managed. He always did.

Sam was an unwelcome intrusion, of course. Her timing couldn't have been worse and he wasn't too pleased that the bitch had taken up a few gigabytes of memory by spending the night.

Thankfully, he was the master of improvisation, and all it took was a banana and a bowl. She had done the rest for him.

She'd done him another favour, though he was loathe to admit it. At 40, the average man doesn't exactly have the kind of libido that demands constant attention. Unless it's been getting constant attention. Remove the source of attention and the body will protest a bit.

Some men might have resigned themselves to her presence. Might have convinced themselves they were content watching her, might even try to….well. He wasn't some men.

He was who he was and right now he was able to admit to himself that Sam's biological attendance was paying dividends. Without her, Wilson might have gone weeks without doing this.

The raw footage was incredible. Editing it to combine all the angles was physical torture, but if anyone had seen him, all they'd notice would be a smile.

Sam had also provided the sound check he'd needed. This little movie gem could never tarnish, but the original microphone placement had made for a very muffled soundtrack. He'd had to move it twice before capturing a perfect replica of every word, every moan, ever rustle of fabric and flesh.

The final product was to die for.

Wilson sprawled naked on top of the covers, touching himself everywhere but where House wanted him to touch himself. Hair ruffling against the pillows, right leg drawing in only to kick back out, and those eyes falling to slits as his arousal grew.

Every man had his own way to do this. There were finite possibilities, and one doesn't usually become too adventurous with this beyond the age of 17. It was a testament to Wilson's nature that he managed to surprise his audience.

Turning over wasn't really all that uncommon when working oneself up for the act. A little rubbing against the bedding could feel pretty good, especially to a guy who was getting laid regularly until tonight.

When Wilson propped himself up on his hands, one of the cameras caught the flush spreading up his chest to his neck. House could see his nipples hardening and his Adam's Apple bobbing.

While Wilson worked himself into a rhythm against the bed, House matched him. A flash of red was visible for an entire second with every downward thrust of Wilson's hips and though House had loved seeing Wilson naked and hard, that teasing glimpse was so much better.

His hips flexed and his gluts bunched and his calves rippled as he ground himself towards Heaven. He didn't speak, didn't moan, but his breathing was more than enough for House.

He stopped more than halfway through the act to spread a towel under him. It was so _Wilson_, it made the final cut.

He didn't betray his thoughts even once. He didn't mutter any phrases or call out a name or flash a tell of any kind. He just kept the same steady pace throughout and when he came, his arms shook with the effort to maintain his balance.

The way he rolled onto his back and the soft sound of his wet prick slapping against him was House's undoing.

Post-orgasmic endorphins made the clean-up ritual bearable, endearing even, and House was glad he'd left it in.

As the master of improvisation, it was easy to justify holding onto Lucas' surveillance equipment a bit longer. Wilson was sure to give another performance or two very soon.


End file.
